


gold

by goodnightpuckbunny



Category: Hockey RPF
Genre: Angst, Blow Jobs, Comeplay, Feelings, M/M, Mutual Masturbation, Pining, Possessive Behavior, Premature Ejaculation, Ritual Sex, Sexual Fantasy
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-11-10
Updated: 2017-11-10
Packaged: 2019-01-31 11:33:34
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,846
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12681048
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/goodnightpuckbunny/pseuds/goodnightpuckbunny
Summary: So what if Zhenya wants Sid to fuck him into next week? It doesn’t matter.





	gold

**Author's Note:**

> This fic tried to kill me in my sleep several times, I'm sure, but I remain victorious!
> 
> Contains ritual sex for the purpose of ambiguous hockey luck, which Geno has some trepidation about at first (to put it lightly), but both he and Sid have consented. 
> 
> Hope you all enjoy it!

“We don’t have to do this.”

Zhenya scoffs. “You think I’m _want_ to?”

Sid pauses. He looks uncertain as he kneels on the golden silk sheets, the fine fabric pulling under his weight and making a starburst around him.  

He’s naked, save for the 87 that hangs from the finely-linked chain around his neck, and he’s been oiled to a glowing sheen. For once, there’s no product in his hair, and it sits in soft curls on the crown of his head. The three inked bands of his captaincy stand out on his bicep, even in the dim candlelight of the Ritual room. His eyelashes are long and dark, his cheeks dusted with helpless blush at the mere suggestion of what they’re about to do, and his lips, as ever, are suggestively pink.

Every aspect of Sid’s preparation for tonight has been designed to be appealing—to make him look like molten gold and sex—but it doesn’t change one very important fact. “I know you don’t want to.” Sid sighs, already resigned. “Should we call this off? I could still do this with Tanger instead.”

“No,” Zhenya snaps, and climbs onto the bed after Sid like he’s got a point to prove. As much as he doesn’t want to do this, he wants Sid to do it with someone else even less. The thought of Sid letting someone else claim the Ritual from another teammate sends gnarled, green jealousy through Zhenya. Sid should belong to _him_. “Fuck you. We do this.”

“Okay,” Sid’s mouth twists into a frown, but he still reaches for Zhenya.

Zhenya is frozen as Sid trails fingers down his arm, over his own tattooed marks of leadership. This is the tentative testing of the waters, Sid sweetly curious and gentle, but Zhenya just wants it to be over. The sooner, the better. “Come on, Sid.”

Sid makes a huffy noise and moves to balance his left hand on Zhenya’s hip. The other, he curls around his own cock—not that Zhenya looks, but he’s pretty sure that it’s the reason why Sid’s breath catches and his eyelashes flutter for a moment. Sid looks away from Zhenya as works himself, nevertheless leaning into Zhenya’s personal space. He smells like amber and fresh ice, faint beneath the scent of the incense that usually burns in the trainer’s room, but has made its way here for the Ritual tonight to keep them both relaxed.

When he eventually reaches down to palm his own cock, Zhenya turns his head and tries to think of winning. He doesn’t need to reach out for Sid because the hand on his hip completes the circuit of energy. By the time Zhenya is hard, Sid is gasping and whimpering, biting his lip when Zhenya glances up.

“Shit,” Sid hisses, and it’s bad enough that Zhenya has to listen to the sounds of Sid’s hand gliding slickly, he shouldn’t have to endure a _monologue_.

“Shut up.”

“F-fuck, oh _Christ_.”

What’s his problem? Why can’t he keep it to himself? Zhenya doesn’t want this _background soundtrack_ when he’s—

“I’m close, Geno,” Sid says. It’s surprising, given that Zhenya is still struggling to stay fully hard, but his cheeks are burning red and his lips parting around his litany of noises. Sid reaches for the offering vessel, letting go of his cock instead of letting go of Zhenya.

With the vessel between them, Sid slides his hand up to Zhenya’s shoulder, never breaking contact, his touch leaving a trail of buzzing sensation in its wake. And then he’s fisting his cock again, angling the head towards the bowl. It takes a while, plenty of frustrated grunting, before Sid says, “If you just—I need two hands, please.”

“No,” Zhenya says. “Shut up and do yourself.”

Sid gasps, squeezes his fist tightly, and Zhenya watches with sick fascination as come splashes into the vessel, mixing with its shimmering contents. When he finally releases his cock, Sid dips his fingers and brings the golden slick to Zhenya’s chest.

It’s like a switch is flipped. The touch zips like electricity along his nerves, and then lodges itself as helpless arousal deep within him. He tightens his grip on his dick without thinking about it. He wants more contact, because the light trailing of Sid’s fingers is not enough. The gentle, cautious movements of the ritual are _not enough_.

He clenches his teeth against the moaning that threatens to spill from his mouth. He sets a brutal pace on himself rather than giving into the urge to drag Sid into his body until there’s no space left between them. He wants to claim, to mark, to feed the hunger that rests in the pit of his abdomen.

Sid paints a shape on his skin, come and gold dust and holy oil forming an inverted triangle over his heart. He’s precise—a practiced artist as he makes his mark, all symmetry and perfection. He gives no indication that he’s noticed Zhenya coming apart; he doesn't seem to know that Zhenya's whole world is rearranging. It’s only when Sid has finished, and given a satisfied little nod, that he pats Zhenya’s hip carelessly with damp fingertips, leaving a smudge of gold behind. That’s what pushes Zhenya over the edge.

The energy of the ritual burns through him. He nearly misses the offering vessel entirely. His surprise sends some of his come splattering against Sid’s stomach. Zhenya grunts and tries to aim the rest of his release in the right place.

Zhenya takes the bowl and leans over Sid, pushing him backwards onto the sheets, until Zhenya is crouched with Sid beneath him. He dips his own fingers into the vessel. It’s warmer than he expects, somehow, and he swirls the mixture around, watching the eddies dance.

“Geno,” Sid murmurs, and he’s still touching Zhenya, “You have to do it now.”

“I’m doing,” Zhenya grumbles. He collects the gold in his palm and then, decisively, smears it over Sid’s neck.

Sid whines, squirms. “G, what the _hell—_ ”

“Shh.” He’s not particular like Sid was. He just rubs the gold over Sid’s skin, going back to the bowl when the pigment gets thin. It gets all over, and Sid is breathing heavily, eyes wild when Zhenya glances up. He’s struck with the urge to press his mouth to Sid’s pink, wet lips, but that’s probably just the thrilling energy of the Ritual giving him such impulsive thoughts.

When he’s satisfied, Zhenya leans back. Sid definitely looks marked. He looks _owned_.

Zhenya can’t help but feel smug.

The buzzing energy of the ritual fades, draining out of Zhenya like dripping honey, the vestiges of it clinging sweetly. It’s the same sense of satisfaction as a nap in the sun or a big meal. He gets why some guys can get addicted to the sensation and end up in the Ritual room before nearly every game. But Zhenya’s not that kind of person.

“It’s enough?” He asks, resisting the urge to collapse next to Sid and wrap an arm around his thick waist, because Sid looks at least as contented as Zhenya feels.

“Should be,” Sid says. “Unless you want to do it again?”

Zhenya watches the gold shimmer in the candle light. That’s _his_ mark. “No, don’t need,” he lies.

“Then I think we’re good.” Sid rolls across the sheets and stands with casual ease, stretching his hands up over his head, the muscles in his back bunching and releasing. “Wait a few hours before you shower, though. The gold will probably flake off on it’s own, so don’t pick at it.”

“Won’t.”

Sid puts slides his robe back on, and Zhenya catches a last glimpse at the come that ended up on Sid's stomach. “Thanks for doing this with me, Geno,” Sid says, his smile genuine. “I know you were uncomfortable with it, but hey,” he shrugs, “it’s only once a year.”

* * *

Zhenya wakes for the third time that week in a sweat, achingly hard, and only a handful of strokes away from coming. He clenches his fists into the blankets instead, grits his teeth against the ghostly remnants of his recurring dream, resists groaning a complaint that, at this point, is routine. Sidney has been _haunting_ him at night, though unbeknownst to Sid himself.

The dream is the ritual all over again, moment-for-moment—Sid’s fluttering eyelashes and relentless moaning. It’s Zhenya sliding the silky mixture over Sid’s neck after they’ve both spent themselves. It’s the warmth sinking in deep, but then when Zhenya asks if the ritual is enough, if they're done, Sid says _no_ and _please_ and _don’t stop_.

And there, in Zhenya’s dream, Sid pulls their bodies close together and whimpers _take_ _me, Geno_ , canting his hips up and throwing his head back to expose his throat.

That's the point where Zhenya jolts awake, frustrated and hot.

He eventually makes it out of bed, and into the shower, more to clear his head than to get clean. Then Zhenya has a quick breakfast of fried eggs because he’s already late for morning skate.

Sid is warming up on one of the stationary bikes when Zhenya arrives. He nods and waves. Zhenya tries not to stare at his neck.

“You doin’ alright, buddy?” Phil comes up alongside Zhenya and slaps his back.

“Fine,” Zhenya grunts, and makes for the weight benches.

Phil trails after him. “Need a spotter?”

“Is water wet?”

“Okay, grumpy, maybe you need to cool it with the attitude.” Phil looks thoughtful. “When’s the last time you got laid?”

Zhenya hasn’t been counting, not really, but he knows basic math. It’s been three weeks, two days, and maybe eleven hours since Sid, and longer still before that. He has a feeling that having sex isn’t going to fix his problem. He’s not going to call Flower up and ask him how the hell he dealt with it all those years, but he’s definitely thought about it.

It’s not just the memory that bothers him. It’s also how much _more_ he wants.

He wants to drag Sid into bed, and suck his cock down until he’s nothing more than a puddle of helpless begging. Zhenya has never even given anyone a blowjob, but he bets he’d be a fast study. It’s Sid, after all, who is always so _obvious_ about what he wants if you just know how to look for it. And Zhenya knows Sid very well.  

“Mind your business,” is what Zhenya says to Phil, and starts sliding weights onto the bar.

* * *

 They’re not doing well. It’s only November, but Zhenya can’t help thinking that they’re getting the shit kicked out of them for no good reason. Maybe the Ritual wasn’t enough. Maybe they did it wrong. Maybe—

“Should we do again?”

“Hm?” Sid looks up from lacing his skates. The room is full of teammates, but Zhenya can’t let his worrying go on another moment, and there’s still time before warm-ups. They could probably get it done. He finds that the idea of Sid wearing his marks beneath his gross antique pads all game is enthralling, to put it lightly. He wouldn’t mind at all.

“Ritual,” Zhenya clarifies, “We need do again?”

“Oh.” Sid actually stops what he’s doing. He _thinks_ about it, but then, “Uh, nope!” He says brightly. “We’re good. I know things are not _great_ right now—”

“It’s all shit.”

“Not _all_ shit, but okay, sure. It sucks.” He rubs his neck, and Zhenya follows the movement with rapt attention. He’d willingly take Sid on center ice in front of the whole arena—give them all a show if Sid would let him.

Zhenya tries to sound calm. “If we need, I do again, no problem.”

“Geno,” Sid smiles up at him, “it’s alright. We’ll make it work.”

Somehow, Zhenya manages not to shake Sid by his ridiculous shoulders, and instead nods once, and turns away to finish his pre-game.

So what if Zhenya wants Sid to fuck him into next week? It doesn’t matter.

* * *

 He refuses to feel glum and unwanted. He goes out with the team and lets half the bar flirt with him. He smiles, dances, buys drinks, laughs at jokes he doesn’t really understand. Ultimately, though, he goes home alone.

Zhenya is _fine_ with it.

It doesn’t matter that he’d spotted Sid across the room playing absently with the collar of his shirt. It doesn’t matter that Zhenya had been struck with the sudden fantasy of pulling Sid to him and sucking a line of bruises down his throat. It doesn’t matter at all.

So what if Zhenya falls back onto his bed when he gets home, shoves his hand down his boxers, and gets off to the thought of Sid mewling and squirming as Zhenya pins him down and marks him all over?

He feels bad about it after, of course. It’s one thing to fantasize about Sid—because he’s certain a good third of the NHL does—but it’s another thing entirely to let those thoughts be the fuel for his rocket-punch of an orgasm. The come that ends up squished between his fingers feels dirty, now. The sweat from the bar has cooled on his skin. His hair is flattened on his forehead and the misery he’d shoved down has risen to hang about him like smog.

Even after fifteen minutes in the shower, he still feels like he has this— _film_ coating him. He scrubs his skin until it’s pink and tight, and even then he still has this gross sensation of filth. Sid can’t know what Zhenya’s been thinking. He’d be just as disgusted as Zhenya feels right now.

In the end, he calls Flower. It takes him the better part of an off day to work up the courage.

“I dunno,” Flower says. It sounds like he’s eating something on the other end, even though it’s kind of late in Nevada. “It was never weird for us.”

“How’s not weird? Sid’s _dick_ is there.”

“I’ve seen Sid’s dick lots of times,” Flower points out.

That’s true, but, “Is still different.”

“It was kind of nice. Sid was always considerate, you know? He was sweet and quiet and tried not to get in my way." Quiet? Sid was anything but quiet. "And then I went home to Vero and we took a nice bath together.” He pauses and Zhenya hears munching on the other end. Through a mouthful of _something_ , Flower admonishes, “There’s really nothing weird about it. It’s just normal pre-season stuff.”

“I think,” Zhenya admits, “maybe we do it wrong.”

“Oh? What do you mean?”

Zhenya huffs. He shouldn’t be talking about team issues to someone who’s on another team, but it still feels like Flower is a Penguin, and merely on some extended vacation. “Not great start to season.”

Flower blows a raspberry through the phone. “You’re doing fine. Look, the Ritual is not a science. We have no captain so I let all three As spunk on my chest at the same time, and it’s been mixed results. Our standings are good, but look at how many goalies we’re going through. And Nealer has no _teeth_.”

“I know, he’s even more ugly now.”

“Fucking right. He keeps asking me if I can ask Sid for mozzarella stick recipes and his bad jokes are giving me a headache.” His voice is light, but Zhenya knows he’s worried. They’re _all_ worried, and very carefully not mentioning it, less it invokes bad luck. He wishes that Flower could just come _home_ so that the team could take care of him.  “Anyways, what I’m saying is that you should talk to Sid about this.”

“Already try,” Zhenya sighs.

“Are you sure you didn’t just make your sad eyes at him and hope he got the message? Because Sid can be kind of dense—”

“No, Flower, I’m talk to him. With words.” Why is everyone always so convinced that he doesn’t communicate well with Sid? They understand each other perfectly well, except for when it comes to ritualistic sex practices, apparently.

“Well try again,” Flower says, firm. “Make sure he listens to you.”

“Fine,” Zhenya snaps.

“Good.” He seems to put the topic of Sid aside, even though Zhenya could probably go on talking in circles about it for another hour. “Now tell me how my rookie is doing, because he won’t return my texts and I need to know if I have to tell Tanger to get the D to absorb more pressure for him.”

* * *

 Zhenya genuinely intends to talk to Sid about the whole _can’t stop thinking about fucking on gold sheets_ thing. He really does. He’s headed towards the video room after practice because he knows Sid is reviewing extra tape there. They’re going to have a very mature conversation if Zhenya manages not to crawl dick-first onto Sid’s lap.

Only, when he gets there, Zhenya can hear voices. He thinks it’s Olli talking with Sid, the deep timbre of his voice familiar even though it doesn’t carry very well. Zhenya stops in the hallway to eavesdrop.

“I know other guys do it more often,” Sid says. “You have to be careful with hockey magic. Rituals can be difficult to control. Sometimes it takes too much from you. But if you’re _intentional_ about it, and you don’t ask for more than you’re willing to bargain for, then you’re usually fine.”

Olli’s voice is uncharacteristically nervous when he replies, “Isn’t it strange?”

Sid hums. “Well, yeah, it definitely is. Like it’s _awkward_. But it’s only once a year, and then you can forget it happened.”

He’s heard enough. Zhenya scampers away because he can take a hint.

_did you and sid talk?_ Flower texts him a few days later.

_yes,_ Zhenya replies, _everything fine now_

* * *

 There’s a cold, hard pit lodged in his chest, right between his lungs, but Zhenya ignores it and moves on with his fucking life. Sid’s reaction—to think that it’s awkward and unpleasant to have to smear semen on your teammate—is normal and reasonable. It’s _Zhenya_ who is strange.

He endures Sid’s endless supply of heart-warming victory smiles despite his ugly November facial hair. He survives the even _worse_ December holiday-anticipatory eagerness, when Sid stares longingly at every Christmas display he sees and tries to hide it like he thinks it’s unbecoming to show any kind of youthful enthusiasm. He’s all rosy-cheeked and glittering eyes and hands shoved deep, deep into his pockets. Zhenya does not grab Sid by the lapels of his sleek winter greatcoat and rub their noses together, which he thinks is really very big of him.

Other than the fact that he still gets half-hard when he gets a whiff of the incense in the trainer’s room, he’s doing alright. Sid comes out of the shower after a game with his dark hair curling, his lips slack, and Zhenya imagines gold splashed across his pale skin, on the soft winter-baking-related curve of Sid’s stomach. He’s absolutely _fine_.

* * *

The Penguins’ Christmas Party is a highlight of Zhenya’s year. He loves New Years’ with his Russian friends, but the sheer unapologetic exuberance of Christmas in North America is something Zhenya looks forward to as soon as the temperature in Pittsburgh starts dropping.

They hold the party at the practice rink because the arena is being used that night. Zhenya shows up late, partially because at this point he feels that it’s expected of him, but also because it’s snowing and the roads are clogged with people trying to commute home. There’s a collection of baked goods from the European market bundled in his arms, though, so he knows he’ll be forgiven. He can hear the Christmas music floating down the hallways as soon as he swipes his card across the reader and opens the door. It’s some song he’s heard a hundred times by now, and doesn’t remember the name of, but it has the same cheery sentiment as most holiday music.

Almost everyone is gathered in the main lounge. Zhenya puts his offerings to the potluck down on one of the tables, and makes the rounds. He chirps Phil with Reaves and hangs around with Horny and Hags. He makes sure that all of the kids get a candy cane—even the babies. At some point, someone presses a mug of eggnog into his hands.

It’s spiked, but delicious.

They team eats in shifts as people get hungry. Zhenya feels cozy from the inside-out.

Santa arrives—this year Jim is wearing the festive red suit—and the parents organize their little ones into some kind of line. Some day Zhenya is going to be old and grey enough that he gets to be the Christmas-party Santa, and more and more he finds it’s something he’s looking forward to. He hopes by then he’ll have mastered English enough that the kids aren’t spoiled for the Christmas magic with his accent.

“Hey,” Sid appears suddenly next to Zhenya. He’d been on the fringes of Zhenya’s awareness for the night, but their orbits hadn't crossed yet. Sid grabs Zhenya’s forearm. “Come with me for a second.”

Zhenya lets himself be towed along. Maybe Sid has something to show him on the ice before the family skate.

But Sid seems to slow his progress when they're most of the way down the hall. The noise of the party has followed them, but is muted across the distance. Sid turns to him, face flushed and shiny, probably the result of some extra helpings of eggnog. He smiles and plucks at Zhenya’s sweater with the prancing reindeer. “You look nice." He smiles. "You look really good, Geno.”

Sid smells like cinnamon and ginger and mint and spiced rum and fresh ice. He’s leaning into Zhenya’s space, smoothing his hand over green-and-red patterned wool.

Zhenya bends and captures Sid’s mouth.

He just. He kisses Sid.

He kisses Sid’s open, soft, full lips, and slides a proprietary hand around the back of his neck. Sid’s mouth is wet, and Zhenya licks into it, tasting just the faintest hints of the sticky buns Zhenya brought. He kisses Sid again, and again, and keeps going like waves lapping against the shore. He doesn’t realize Sid isn’t kissing back until he gasps and startles and _shoves_ Zhenya away.

“ _Fuck_ ,” Sid says, and Zhenya echoes the sentiment.

Sid is staring at Zhenya, hurt. His eyes are wide. He runs a hand through his hair, completely ruining his careful gelled style in one nervous movement. “Sorry,” Zhenya blurts. “Sid, I’m sorry.”

“Geno, that’s not _fair_ ,” Sid says.

“Sorry,” Zhenya repeats as Sid puts another foot of space between them, backing up against the wall.

“You’ve gotta—I don’t know. You have to cut it out. I can’t—” Sid breaks off and wipes his mouth with the back of his hand. “I’m trying to be the reasonable one.”

“I go, Sid. Sorry.”

“You can’t just go around _doing—_ whatever this is,” Sid’s cheeks are a little blotchy. Zhenya still can’t help but find it to be devastatingly attractive, despite the sick squirming in his gut. “I can’t be responsible if you’re going around, just—I can’t keep my feelings out if this if—”

Wait. “Feelings?”

Sid ducks his head. “Look, I _tried_ to keep it to myself after the Ritual. I wanted to be professional, but,” he looks up again, “it was bad enough before. Now I can’t stop thinking about your hands on me.”

A shiver of realization runs through Zhenya.

“God,” says Sid, “I know it’s messed up, but I can’t stop thinking about your _dick_ . It’s just so—it’s so _perfect_. And you’re so tall and handsome,” he whines in complaint.

Zhenya just groans. “Sid, you best.” He reaches for Sid’s hand, brings it to his mouth, and kisses the palm. Sid’s breath stutters in a gasp. Zhenya places Sid's hand over the spot where the golden triangle had flaked away months ago. He feels something bright and bubbling now, instead of dread and guilt, and he realizes that it’s pure happiness. “No need be responsible anymore.”

“Okay.”

He kisses Sid again.   

* * *

**Epilogue**

In the morning, they’ll have to call to get shoveled out of the driveway.

For now, the snow floats down, fluffy clumps of flakes that Zhenya brushes out of Sid’s messy hair and off his broad shoulders before they melt in warmth of the foyer. They drop pieces of clothing like breadcrumbs on the way to the bedroom. The sheets are like meringue tufts rising in the dark, but ultimately get shoved onto the floor.

Sid’s fingers are scratching at Zhenya’s scalp, not pushing or pulling, but _gripping_ as Zhenya swallows him down as far as he can without choking. He pulls off, not used to the stretch of a cock in his mouth. Still, he’s determined to make Sid lose his mind. When he looks up, Sid’s face is half-illuminated, golden in the reflection of the city’s lights on the snow. Zhenya is struck all over again with how unassumingly beautiful Sid can be.

“Stop teasing me,” Sid gasps.

“No,” Zhenya says, decisively.

He licks at the crown of Sid’s cock, eager to taste him, and he isn’t disappointed when he rubs his knuckles along the inside of Sid’s thighs. Salt blooms on his tongue as he squeezes and kneads the muscle. He lets Sid’s cock rest against his stomach, alternates sucking kisses between the sensitive spot beneath the head, and the soft, warm skin of his belly.

“ _Geno_.” Sid arches against the sensation.

“Shh, Sid,” Zhenya admonishes, but he loves hearing Sid beg and whine. It’s an overwhelming symphony of sound, and he conducts the music with his mouth and hands, learning to play Sid’s body.

“Just let me come, _please_.”

Zhenya slides up Sid’s torso to kiss him, slow and deep, letting his weight press against Sid’s stiff cock. He grinds his own dick down, finding friction and heat. “Can’t come 'til you’re inside me. I want you _in_ me.”

Sid throws his head back against the pillow, his throat a long golden line.  His hips jolt and wetness spreads between them as Sid comes, far ahead of schedule.

“Sid,” Zhenya murmurs, amazed, thrilled, slipping a hand down to palm Sid’s flexing cock. Everything is slick and messy. Zhenya’s overwhelmed.

“Shit,” Sid sighs, shaky as he comes down. Zhenya wraps himself around Sid as best he can. He kisses Sid's cheek, and his forehead, and then his lips again. “I didn’t mean to do that,” Sid says into the kiss.

Zhenya doesn’t mind in the slightest. “You get hard again?”

“Probably not,” Sid sighs, sounding disappointed. Zhenya kisses him until he relaxes, and then rolls his weight off Sid’s hips, careful of Sid’s softening, probably extra-sensitive cock.

“You fuck me later, then?”

Sid kisses Zhenya now, the shape of his answering smile is obvious. “If you want me to, sure.”

“Definitely want.”

“Yeah?” Sid’s hand skims down Zhenya’s back to his ass, and he wedges his fingers between his cheeks. Zhenya hitches one leg up to give Sid better access. He feels exposed, but when Sid’s finger brushes across his hole, it’s worth it. He shudders and wraps his hand around his cock, still a little wet from Sid’s come.

“See Sid, I always go after you,” Zhenya says as he strokes himself. He tries to take it easy, but finds it impossible to be slow with Sid’s fingers running up and down.

“Next time you’re coming first.”

“Okay, we see.”

The tip of Sid’s finger prods Zhenya’s hole, and when he tries relaxing the muscle, it slips inside, just a bit. Zhenya groans. He’s so close already. He just needs—

“Fuck, G, look at you,” Sid says. His fingertip wiggles inside just a little bit further. “You’re gonna be so good for me.”

Zhenya curls against Sid’s body as the orgasm washes over him, making a mess of his hand and the sheets. Sid gentles his other hand over Zhenya’s shoulder, drawing little inverted triangles. Zhenya hums happily, and says to Sid, “I think this extra good luck. You know, for team.” He feels most of the same warmth he did after the Ritual, the sensation curling up inside him and taking root.

Sid doesn’t say anything for a moment, but then replies, “I don’t care if it’s good for the team. I think it’s good for us.”

“You right,” Zhenya says. The thought of he and Sid having something completely unrelated to the demands of the game contents him. “Always so right, Sid. Except when you wait so long to let me suck your cock. Don’t do again.”

“Let’s go to sleep,” Sid says, affecting irritation even as he slithers to the side of the bed to reach for the blankets. Zhenya looks his fill of Sid’s body in the gold-tinged dark, then kisses Sid one last time before they let the afterglow truly pull them into slumber.

They draw the covers around them, Sid’s hand over Zhenya’s heart, and Zhenya’s fingers resting against the 87 hanging from the finely-linked chain around Sid's neck.

**Author's Note:**

> Questions? Suggestions? [I'm here for you.](http://goodnightpuckbunny.tumblr.com)


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